


Left unsaid

by OtterAndTerrier



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Deathly Hallows, F/M, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Shell Cottage, missing moment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 13:52:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1943616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtterAndTerrier/pseuds/OtterAndTerrier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After escaping the Ministry, Ron is having trouble doing things like getting a bath with his injured arm. Hermione will try to help, no matter how much it hurts to think that it's not really the time for romance. One-shot with a parallel, set in DH.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Left unsaid

The day had started as cloudless and uneventful as it'd been when they had arrived the morning before. By the time Hermione took over watch duty and sat down at the entrance of the tent, away now from the woods that surrounded the Quidditch World Cup stadium, the sky was overcast and the air colder.

She had brought one of the books about Horcruxes outside, resolute in re-reading it from start to end in case she had missed anything about how to destroy them. The sooner they got rid of the one they had, the better. She didn't fancy having part of Voldemort's soul as a dinner guest. It was a hideous book, though, and her mind was elsewhere. On why hadn't she thought of packing more than the one box of biscuits they had decided to make last for as long as they could, for example. She had sensibly packed three small boxes of teabags at home, but tea made for poor sustenance.

Even though they had stayed at number 12 Grimmauld Place for about a month, Hermione had always stored everyone's things back into her bag—the small, delicate-looking thing she had bought with her mum in London during the summer, along with the dress for Bill and Fleur's wedding. Her mum had been excited for her, asking questions about what a Wizarding wedding was like and talking pointedly about Ron, while Hermione did her best not to cry.

She'd thought it was best to be prepared, especially after the wedding, keeping their things close at hand just in case. But she hadn't counted on leaving Grimmauld Place so soon, and in any case, what could she have packed? It wasn't as if they could have popped into a supermarket to buy non-perishable goods.

Hermione was pulled out of her reverie by the noises inside the tent. The surroundings were so quiet that she was able to hear clearly the sharp intake of breath followed by Ron's accustomed string of curses.

'Ron? Everything okay?' she asked, walking in. Right before Harry had left in search of food, Hermione had helped Ron fill the modest bath and heat the water by magic. She had mopped up the blood he was drenched in after his injury, but a proper bath would do better.

She was already standing in front of the flaps of canvas that separated the bathroom from the kitchen before Ron answered.

'It's fine,' he said, in a restrained voice. 'Is Harry back yet?'

'No, he just left. We agreed he'd walk to the town, so it'll be a while before he's back. Why? Do you need anything?'

'No. You can go.'

Hermione wrung her hands anxiously.

'What is it? I can help, I'm sure.'

'No, you can't. I was just going to ask Harry to help me take my shirt off.'

'Oh.' She had told Ron not to remove the sling for a few days, so his injury could heal properly. The essence of dittany healed superficial wounds just fine, but if the muscles in Ron's arm had been strained, there was nothing she could do except instructing him not to move too much and procuring a bag of ice. Still, getting off his clothes must be painful at the least.

'I can do it if... if you want.'

'It's okay, I'll just wait till Harry comes back.' Hermione could picture his ears growing as red and her cheeks felt.

'But the water is already hot, and we all want to take a bath!'

'Then you can do it now and I'll keep watch.'

'You can't keep watch yet, Ron! I'm coming in,' she said resolutely, and pushed one flap of canvas aside.

'Or I can just use a Severing Charm and cut my shirt open!' Ron sputtered when she entered. Mercifully, he hadn't taken his trousers off yet.

'Don't be stupid. You could hurt yourself doing that.'

Hermione walked up to him and froze in sudden self-consciousness. She did want to help him, to make sure he didn't do further damage and to spare him more pain. Besides, arguing with Ron always made her keep going, just to prove him wrong. But now that she was here, and she realized that she'd offered to _help him undress_ , Hermione didn't know what to do next.

'Okay then, let's start with your jumper,' she said, trying to sound as practical as she could. She lifted the hem of the garment with one hand and pulled at his right sleeve; Ron slid his arm and head out easily, if somewhat brusquely. She then balled up the jumper in her hands and slid it down Ron's injured arm, after removing the makeshift sling she'd made with the rest of Cattermole's shirt and commanding him not to stretch the arm out.

The shirt was easier. As Hermione had torn out the one Ron was wearing when he got Splinched, Harry had helped him into fresh clothes afterwards and decided a button-down was less of a hassle. They'd only gotten Ron into a woolly jumper that morning before leaving, and Ron hadn't been as anxious about getting help as he seemed now. Of course, now it was just the two of them, and the implications were different. Hermione tried to think of something else as Ron unbuttoned his shabby plaid shirt with some difficulty—but obviously determined to do it himself—and then helped him out of it.

'Let me check your arm,' she said, bending her head so that her hair would cover her flushed cheeks from Ron's top view. There was a big bruise on the spot where Ron's skin had been torn out, but it seemed to be healing well. At least she knew it wasn't going to get infected.

'It will be swollen for a few more days, but at least you didn't get any scars. Although I'd rather have scars than pain...'

'It's not as if I'd had much of a say about it,' said Ron, and Hermione froze.

'I—I did everything I could, Ron. And what I meant was that, if I'd had other method to fix you up without any pain, I would have done it even if it'd left you some scars.'

Catching on Hermione's pained tone, he stepped back to look at her and said, 'I didn't mean... I know you did your best. I wasn't trying to...' Ron shook his head slightly, as if he were trying to shake the mumbling out of him as well. 'Thank you.'

Hermione nodded silently, folding Ron's clothes.

'I can get my—the rest of my clothes off by myself, if you want to...'

'Yes, I'm going now. Did you find clean clothes in my bag? A bar of soap? Don't forget to keep your arm still. I think you'd better put that sling back on, I could—'

'I'll be fine, Hermione.'

His tone wasn't harsh, but it was definite. It wasn't as if she had any reason to linger, so Hermione finally went out to resume her watch.

Halfway through, however, she changed her mind. Trying to be soundless, she stood beside the bathroom's entrance, on a spot where her shadow wouldn't betray her on the other side, and waited.

She heard the soft _plop_ of clothes hitting the floor, followed by the sound of a body breaking into the water, all the while holding in her breath.

 _It's not Ron; it's my friend, who's injured and might need assistance_ , she reminded herself. Hermione hated the fact that she'd had to remind herself of something as obvious and basic as that of late, as if she was some silly school girl. This wasn't the time for flirting. But it wasn't really about flirting: it was more than that. It was certain looks and the merest contact that suddenly felt too intimate and put her on guard, because really, it wasn't the time for intimacy. The truth was, however, that it hurt her inside. Ron finally seemed to acknowledge the feelings she'd known he had for a while—and realized that they matched her own—but it was… not too late—she wouldn't say that—but certainly ill-timed.

There was some splashing inside the bathroom accompanied by a loud grunt of pain.

'Ron?' Hermione asked immediately, and then cursed herself. Now it was too obvious that she'd been waiting out there. 'Did you hurt yourself?'

Ron didn't answer right away.

'Didn't. Go away.'

'But if you—'

'Bloody hell, Hermione, what do you want now?' he exploded, finally losing his temper.

'I want to help you!'

'I don't need any help!'

Hermione clucked her tongue impatiently.

'You're being ridiculous. I'm not letting you move that arm around; if you hurt yourself I won't be able to do anything! I'm coming in.'

She strode into the bathroom with her eyes fixed on the floor, but he could hear Ron splashing about, the water lapping over the edge of the bath, and she risked a peek. He was hunched over, his knees brought up against his chest with his unhurt arm and a fierce flush blotching the back of his neck.

Hermione thought he almost looked like a red traffic light. _Stop. Danger._

'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I'll just help you wash your right arm and your back, okay?'

After a sullen moment of silence, he growled, 'Fine.'

The tent's bathroom was the size of The Burrow's broomshed. On one side sat the bath, old and yellowish but spotlessly clean, in which Ron sat curled up. He wouldn't have been able to stretch his legs to their full extent even if he'd wanted to. On the other side, the loo was squeezed against the sink. Due to the lack of plumbing, the sink was just an old-fashioned basin on a pedestal, with no taps. On a stool laid a set of the toiletries Hermione had brought. She had more inside her bag, but how long would they last? For how long would they _need_ them to last?

Hermione picked up the unused sponge and asked Ron to pass the soap while she settled on the floor by his back. For the second time in less than half an hour, she didn't quite know what to do and was beginning to regret her resolve to help him out. She rolled up her sleeves and squirted some water on the sponge with her wand before rubbing the soap on it. It was pointless to delay it anymore, and she wanted to be done before Harry arrived—she was certain he knew, and didn't want to give him more reasons to suspect anything was going on—so, at last, she squeezed the sponge and started rubbing Ron's back.

Ron sat like a pale statue; she could tell he was still uncomfortable about the deal. His shoulders were hunched and his back looked taut as she worked.

'D'you think Harry will manage to get any food?' he asked.

'I don't know. As long as he can summon something without being too obvious... Are you hungry?'

Ron gave a rather nasty snort.

'Aren't _you_? We haven't had any proper food since yesterday morning at Grimmauld Place.'

'Well... I let you have two biscuits this morning,' said Hermione, in a feeble attempt to lighten the mood.

'Wow, thank you. I'm set for the day. Seriously Hermione, you do need to sort out your priorities. Who on their right mind would think it's more important to bring a thousand books but no food?'

'Oh, I don't know, maybe someone who would have let you bleed out on the ground,' said Hermione scathingly. Ron's tone was beginning to annoy her. It was as if he were trying to pick an argument to pass the awkward situation.

Ron's shoulders slumped down slightly, and after a moment, he muttered, 'Sorry.'

She continued to wash Ron's back in silence, trying not to touch him directly. She could still feel his warmth though; Hermione herself felt cold and slightly shivering.

'Do you reckon...?' Ron started. He seemed to hesitate in his question and finally said, 'Never mind.'

'What?'

'Nothing. Well... where do we go next? How do we know where the other Horcruxes are?'

'I don't know. But Dumbledore spent all last year showing Vol— _You-Know-Who_ 's past,' she corrected herself, after Ron twisted his head as far as he could in warning, 'to Harry. There must be some clue in there, something Harry hasn't realized of yet. We'll just have to... wait, and try to help him see it.'

'Doesn't sound like much,' said Ron gloomily.

Hermione sighed and moved to his right arm, which he couldn't have reached by himself.

'I know, but it's the best plan we have.' She could tell Ron wasn't satisfied by her answer. _She_ wasn't satisfied by her answer. But what else could they do about it?

'You know, the night Mad-Eye died... I was with Kingsley, and he was very riled-up about the Death Eaters showing up. To check whether Lupin was an impostor, he asked him what the last words that Dumbledore said to the both of them were. Lupin said, "Harry is the best hope we have. Trust him".' She squeezed the sponge. 'That's what we have to do, too.'

'I trust Harry,' Ron said promptly, but something about his tone made her think that he'd left something unspoken.

Upon reaching his elbow, she decided that her job was done. Hermione handed him the sponge and soap, and Ron immediately hugged his knees tight again, before she stood up. Hermione stayed on her knees, though. She reached out a hand instead... but stopped an inch before touching him.

'We'll be fine,' she added softly, more to herself. She needed to hear it, to know that they would be fine. More than anything, Hermione wished that Ron would hug her, like he'd done at Dumbledore's funeral. She had been crying, out of grief but also because she sensed what was coming, and for the first time, Ron had put his arm across her back and drawn her to a hug as they sat there. And as she cried, she realized he wasn't being chivalrous or pretending to be brave, because she could hear the smallest sobs leaving his chest. They had just held onto each other, and she had known it would be all right.

She couldn't hug him now, no more than she could kiss him. He had to be Ron, her friend, for now, and when he hugged her... she knew that was not what either of them wanted.

Ron just nodded.

* * *

The door to the bathroom opened and Fleur walked out, her brow creased in concern as it had been for the past 24 hours. She spotted Ron lingering in the hallway and gave him a questioning look. He hadn't made any attempt to hide because, as a matter of fact, he no longer cared if she found it strange.

'What can I do for you, Ron?' she asked ever so kindly. It was funny for Ron to remember how enthralled he'd been by her even after she and Bill had started dating. Fleur's Veela charm no longer had any effect on him, though. He had a rough idea why.

'Is she... all right in there?'

'Yes, at least that is what she told me. I 'elped 'er with 'er clothes, but she assured me she could wash 'erself. She is... she is really bruised.'

Ron's stomach turned into a knot.

'I'll stay here, in case she needs anything,' he said. Fleur nodded and drifted downstairs. When she was out of view, Ron stood closer to the door, listening. Ever since they had returned from Malfoy's house, he hadn't been able to let Hermione out of his sight. This wasn't the first time he stood outside a closed door. When he had to be somewhere else, he'd made sure someone was with her. He wasn't leaving her alone anymore.

Inside, he heard the sound of water being gently moved around. After a moment of silence, he heard the sobs, muffled by the door and quiet enough not to be heard by anyone passing by. It was the saddest sound Ron had ever heard.

'Hermione?' he called softly. 'What's wrong? Do you need anything?'

There was a sniff, but she didn't reply.

'Please. I can call back Fleur if you need help. I can come in.'

'No, Ron. I'm good.'

'Cover yourself. I'm coming in,' he decided. He waited for Hermione to object; when she didn't, Ron opened the door and stepped in.

Bill and Fleur's bathroom was small, but still bigger than what they'd had in the tent, and the bath was made to accommodate both of its owners' long legs. In spite of this, Hermione was curled up in the middle, surrounded by thick white soap bubbles. Ron had never seen her looking so small. He thought it was the combination of her usually frizzy hair now partially wet and hanging limply past her shoulders, her body reduced to a skinny frame due to months of malnutrition and the size of the bath in comparison... but what really made her small was the way she was crying. After seven years of being friends with her, Ron had witnessed several kinds of crying in Hermione Granger: the silent weeping of the little girl hurt by his nasty remarks; the sincere sobbing of his friend who just wanted to make up with him; the half-laugh, half-cry thing she'd done when he and Harry had reconciled, after the first task of the Triwizard Tournament; the infuriated tears he'd glimpsed before she set those canaries on him. Not even the tears she'd shed at Dumbledore's funeral, or when Mad-Eye had died, resembled these.

'Please, Ron,' she whispered without looking at him, 'I don't need your pity.'

'Pity?' he repeated incredulously. 'I don't pity you. I think you're amazing. Just wanted to make sure you're all right.'

Another tear rolled down.

'I'm not.'

'I know.'

'Everything... everything hurts,' she said in a very small voice.

Ron had been wondering if it did. She had been still unconscious when he'd brought her in the night before. Fleur had woken her up after assessing the damage to give her some Skele-Gro, in case she had fractured ribs, and tended to her other minor injuries with Dittany, and although Ron could see her wince with every movement she made, Hermione had still wanted to go outside with everybody else. He noticed the many bruises that covered the visible parts of her back and arms and the welt that Bellatrix's dagger had imprinted on her throat, black and red against pale skin, but what kind of pain had the Cruciatus Curse left her with?

'Do you... want me to help you wash?' he asked carefully. He didn't expect her to say yes, but he didn't anticipate the faint half smile she gave him after a while, either.

'Is that payback for when I did it to you? After you got Splinched?'

He couldn't help but smile as well. Her unexpected, and unwelcome at the time, bath assistance was the last thing on Ron's mind. He couldn't deny that the memory had been there for some time, eliciting feelings that ranged from anger to embarrassment to hope for an encore. But all he cared about now was her.

'No. I'll do whatever you want. What do you want to do?'

Hermione let out a shaky laugh before her face crumpled once again. She turned to Ron and looked at him with glossy eyes.

'I want to cry.'

It hit him, then, that this was the first time he had seen Hermione crying since they had arrived at Shell Cottage.

'Okay,' he said, and sat down on the floor next to the bath.

Her shoulders trembled, and she finally subsided into the sobs he'd heard from outside, her arms hugging her legs loosely, her head resting on her knees. Ron didn't think he could endure watching Hermione cry like that for much longer without becoming a blubbering mess himself. He'd wept enough in that cellar. He couldn't remember one single time when he'd been more scared in his entire life, not even when he and Harry had been surrounded by man-eating spiders.

And that's how he'd known, for certain, what he felt. Down in Malfoy's cellar, hearing her screams... it had felt as if his heart was being torn out of his chest. He could hardly reason with the blood pounding so hard in his ears; the only thing that mattered was getting to her by any means. As he slammed his fists raw against the walls, yelling and sobbing and praying, he knew that he had to make an effort to think clearly if he really wanted to help her.

'I'm sorry,' he pleaded quietly, closing his eyes.

'About what?' Hermione sputtered.

'About what happened. About what she did to you.'

'It wasn't your fault, Ron.'

'But I couldn't do anything to stop her,' he said bitterly. 'So it is my fault.'

Hermione shifted, turning to cross her arms on the edge of the bath and look at him, the rest of her body submerged on the foamy water.

'There was nothing to do. She wanted to have me... it was three of us against all of them... we were wandless... You couldn't have done anything, and you tried anyway.'

A brown tendril of hair hung out of the bath; Ron touched it with the tip of his finger and let a drop of water slide down to it.

'And Ron... you did do something,' she said then, her voice quivering slightly. 'I... I heard you. I heard my screams, and... h-hers. But I heard yours, too. I kept thinking that we were all going to die, but then you came. You brought me here.'

Ron shook his head. They had reached Hermione just in time, but it had still been too late to stop _that bitch_ from hurting her. Ron couldn't forgive himself for that. If only he'd tried harder...

'You don't understand. It should've been me up there, not you—'

'She wanted _me_.'

'I shouldn't have let her, I should have—'

'Ron,' she cut him. One of her hands emerged from the water and gripped his arm, dripping water and soap on the floor, and soaking his jumper. 'You told her to take you. She didn't want to. And you didn't have to do that. Don't you see? It would have been me in that cellar if she had, and I wouldn't have known what to do. I honestly wouldn't have.'

Her eyes were full of tears again, and she was shivering.

'I'm thankful for what you did—for letting me hear you, for bringing me here, for taking care of me. But if she'd taken you because you offered, I wouldn't have forgiven you. I—why would you do that?' she burst, giving Ron's arm a little shake. Ron was surprised to realize that she sounded angry.

'W—what do you mean?'

'Why would you trade your life for mine? Why?'

Ron looked down, considering his answer. He could not say it, because it wasn't over. There were three Horcruxes left. Voldemort wasn't dead. Harry's journey wasn't over, which meant theirs wasn't, either. If he said it... he wouldn't want to keep going. He'd want to stay at Shell Cottage with her, hiding, keeping her safe, and she wouldn't have that. _He_ wouldn't do that. He wouldn't run away again; he'd never wanted to.

She had to know that he loved her, but he wouldn't say it.

He finally licked his lips and looked up, straight into her eyes.

'You're a clever girl. You should've figured it out.'

'So should you.'

Ron jumped at that, half because he hadn't expected it, half to stop her from saying it. He didn't want to hear anymore; this was enough for him.

The thing was, what they had already implied meant hope, something to live for, something to look forward to when the dust settled. Once, he wouldn't have made anything out of it, putting it down as wishful thinking, wanting it to mean something but fearing that it didn't. Now he knew; he'd known it for a while. The weeks he spent away from Hermione, and out of the locket's influence, had made him seen how much she'd cared about him all along, but his return had shown him more... even if not exactly in the way he'd hoped for.

If they put into words exactly what Ron thought they wanted to say, however, it would feel almost like a farewell before battle. It wasn't how it was meant to be. Ever since he'd come back to her, Ron had not only apologized—he had tried to tell her everything without actually doing it. And a stay at Shell Cottage, planning their next move, was no more ideal than a tent for the beginning of anything. They had to leave it unsaid, for now.

'You are my best friend,' he said slowly. _You can't be more than that yet_. 'I'd do anything for you.'

Hermione looked as if she was about to start sobbing again, but then she caught his eye. He saw a flicker of understanding there, her sadness briefly replaced by determination, and she nodded.

'Except trading your life for mine; I forbid you. It's selfish. I don't know what I would do without... my best friend.'

He smiled. Hermione wasn't angry. She'd understood.

 _She knows_.

'We fight and we live together, then,' he conceded.

'Or die,' she added, but Ron shook his head solemnly.

'We live.'

**Author's Note:**

> This story came up when I was thinking about how painful IVs are and how I wasn't able to move my arm for a whole day afterwards the one time I experienced it, and thinking that maybe Ron had some trouble himself with the whole Splinching event. But I don't even know why I was thinking about IVs in the first place...  
> Anyway, this turned out to be rather lenghty and I decided to dedicate it to the wonderful lectura35 whose birthday was last week (such a belated present!). I have known her for about four years, maybe, met her twice in real life and talked to her more times than I can remember; all in all she's my e-mum and I'm very grateful to have met her. And she's a terrific author, so go check her profile!
> 
> Many thanks to jenahid at Tumblr (since this site eats urls, apparently) for the beta-work, and yay for parellels!


End file.
